A Touch
by PleaseforPeace
Summary: Sherlock/John drabble.


Sherlock Holmes was not a hero. He was not supernatural to any extent, simply understood how to utilise, and experience, his mental abilities in the correct fashion. Clearing out the junk was a daily process, and more than often, John would walk in on these rituals. In which the man would arrange himself pecuilarly, suprisingly flexible for such a brittly thin stature, pressing his fingers to his temples. The pressure appeared as if he were warring off a migraine, but rather, he was deleting information, flicking it off as if it were a switch.

The humorous part to this, was that John was quite familiar with this, far enough to say comfortable with it. It was not surprising to him to hear a crash, a clatter, in the late night, to the man's whom was practically nocturnal. He had grown accostumed to Sherlock, and regarded him fondly. None of this had occurred to him, not until it was blatantly pointed out by Mrs. Hudson, who had compared them, warmly, to a bickering married couple.

Their relationship wasn't in that nature. Actually, their feelings for each other were hardly natural. Holmes was addictive, John could compare him to a drug. Dangerous, unhealthy, risky. The man was so flawed. Socially, he was inept. This he blamed on being a sociopath, which John suspected was merely a jest to get away with his intolerable mouth. He had an affliction to heroin, and other, less namely substances. Even his appearance shook the dead, as his skin was just as dryly thin as parchment. Lips full, but pale, as were his intelligent eyes. You could almost see his mind functioning through them, making his gaze immeasurably significant. The feeling of his gaze was complete, violating penetration- you couldn't hide there.

As it was, Sherlock was an intense narcissist. He wasn't vain, in any sense, and rather despised his inhumane looks, but rather, broad casted a sense of pride for his mind. It was a personality fault, that he refused to recognize, because he saw it as a fact. He was well organized, intelligent, and he loved it. He knew he was right, and that others were too slow to comprehend, he bathed in self worship, the skull once paying a part in this, and in the solitude his capabilities left him, it became a habit. Perhaps, had John Watson never appeared, this may have been dimmed by other's rejection. But as the good doctor only encouraged him, so it grew worse.

Through the praise, which Sherlock was charged with, there became a mutual understanding between the pair. The art which he practiced was highlighted in John Watson's eyes, renewed with awe. John had the talent of child like wonder, he saw magic in simplicity. It was a quality lost with time, and yet, despite his age and war time experience, this treasure Watson retained. As self centered as it sounded, it made Sherlock feel important. Significant.

In John Watson's eyes, Sherlock Holmes could be so much more than a man. His faults were not simply gazed over, for the profit of his talents, this blind sight most commonly practiced by Lestrade. Rather, John saw right into his intolerable nature, his disgusting habits, and just smiled. Which wasn't to say, their relations didn't have their rough patches, in between little domestics. Yet somehow they always reunited under the same vigor, trust, and respect. The anger which he felt during the dispute, Sherlock could easily dismiss for the returning presence of his companion. Alone, he felt as a fish out of water.

John was late returning home that night. He entered, miffed to find that Sherlock was no where in sight. At this ungodly hour, he would expect the man to be running about. Toying with his experiments. He searched the kitchen, tapping his knuckles to what appeared a jar of flies, and grimaced, he could only imagine what Sherlock was using them for. No, rather, he didn't want to imagine. He called the man's name twice, and as he received no reply, he returned to the living room, sinking into the sofa.

He hadn't known he had drifted off to sleep, until, well, he awoke. He stirred awake, to the feeling of something cold pressed to his flushed skin. He pried his eyes open, refocusing into a blurred face, and two surprisingly gentle eyes. Sherlock sat, bent before him, resting upon the coffee table, still clothed in his coat. He was still and cold. Silently, John questioned this unusual display, reaching to touch the cool the hand which cradled the nape of his neck. He hesitantly touched the pale flesh, and instantly Sherlock retracted his hand as if burned.

Yet, they sat like this, holding each other's gaze. John brittle from the unsure rejection, and Sherlock simply distant. They had a mutual understanding, a mutual pact to friendship. Sherlock was a sociopath, and therefore incapable of a steady relationship with anybody. So, it became an important factor, a rule, that in companionship, they could never cross into forbidden ground. Such as personal feelings, attraction, and love, even if it were mutual. It had been the law, but John and Sherlock both knew, that the line had been long crossed before. Just, never to this extent, they were too afraid to take the first step.

Then, John wasn't just anybody to Sherlock. He looked at him in wonder, even now, eyes training on his. They wouldn't simply lose interest. In the beginning, Sherlock had tried to keep the secrets to his gift hidden, in fear that John would no longer see it was wondrous as he once did. That fear was irrational. He seemed to regard him with the same wide eyes from the day they met. He protected a part, that was constantly seeking the approval of society. To ever lose him, to the anxiety that struck him earlier that night. Leading him off into the night, in search of John, fearing the worst had become of him.

This weakness, this heart, couldn't take that sort of panic again. And so Sherlock did something that he never supposed he'd do. He pressed his forehead against John's wanting to absorb his thoughts, needs, wants. Everything that was John, his glorious innocent beauty. To infringe it into his memory, so that he might never forget this moment, to never delete it. Reserving a portion so that he might replay it if necessary.

John stiffed for a second, shocked by this sudden break, but softly smiled at the pact. There was nothing sexual about their chaste touch. It was far deeper. They had become one person under the dimly set full moon. Two halves that had complimented each other, had finally touched under the same base of love and joy.

A sociopath who had found his one and only true connection. "Don't ever leave my side."

"Okay." A man who found his hero.


End file.
